PROLOGUE

THE DAY I WAS BORN, IT RAINED. In Atlanta, it was a soft, lilting, sweet rain that gently massaged the hood of my anorak while we walked toward her home. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her zip her coat and wondered if I could really see my reflection in her face. She wanted me to stay with her and talk more, but I wouldn’t. Maybe if I had, she would have told me this nightmare was only a dream. But it wasn’t a dream, because it was true, and there was no way for her to tell me anything different.
      As I left her home, the rain washed along the windows of my car as if a collector were gently cleaning his prized roadster. The rain poured down on the woman, matting her beautiful blond hair, but, undeterred, she waved goodbye to me with the cadence of the wipers. She had a look of fulfillment on her face—as well she should, for she had been searching for completeness and had found it. I had thought I was complete, but now my search had just begun. What a difference! Of course, it doesn’t matter, because reality becomes an illusion when the fantasy is exposed.
     On the way to Cordele, it continued to rain. First this way then that, the rain poured in sheets just as it always does in this outpost of southern Georgia. Funny how it rains down here. It’s like throwing a bucket of water in the face of a man dying of thirst: Sure, he needs the water, but not all at once. I have walked over parched peanut fields, only hours after a heavy rain, wondering if the sandy soil was really cheesecloth.
     As I drive home—what a strange word!—to confront my parents, I’m not sure how any of this will turn out. Okay, confront may be too strong, and discuss too formal, but certainly ask is inadequate. But, that is what I must do—ask my parents to tell me the woman was lying. Of course, she wasn’t lying, and they won’t be able to tell me she was. Sure, they’ll cough, clear their throats, hem and haw, furrow their brows, rub their tired old hands. But they never lie, and they won’t be able to now.
     Maybe I shouldn’t even mention it to them. After all, they have breathed into me a life that has been far better than I ever could have expected, and infinitely richer and more rewarding than I have deserved. But I have to tell them I know their secret. Our secret, now.
     I look up from the monotonous rhythm of the wipers and stare at my image in the rearview mirror. I see myself as I never have: a bit player in my own life’s story and the only actor in the play who hasn’t known the plot.

                                   - From the Diary of Sammy Lansky

CHAPTER ONE

DAMN GOOD THING SAMMY NEVER CLEANED HIS DESK. He would have knocked himself out for sure when his head hit it, had it not been full of papers, charts, and doctor’s magazines. Exhausted, he tried to open his eyes, but the lids weighed a ton apiece, so he gave in to the rack monster and slobbered all over The Journal of Urology and Gertrude Tinsley’s chart.
     Suddenly he bolted awake and out of his seat as if he’d been poked with a cattle prod. His assistant, Mary Ponder, was outside assaulting the door like it had personally pissed her off and she was getting even.
     Bam! Bam! Boom! Mary hit the door hard. “You in there, Dr. Lansky?” Bam! Bam! “You in there?”
      Sammy didn’t dare open the door, because he thought she might knock it on top of him.
      &ComeCome in! Come in!” he yelled, loud enough for everyone three floors above and below the office to hear him.
      Mary, a sturdy country girl reared on red-eye gravy and ham biscuits, marched in. She believed right and wrong had been determined two thousand years before and were immutable, just as sure as the sun rose in the sky in the morning and the moon showed
up at night.
      &DrDr. L., don’t forget the big meeting tonight at the Rich Carlton,” Mary prompted him as she checked her clipboard for other notes. She found a few and put them on Sammy’s desk.
      &Would Would that be the Ritz Carlton, May-ree?” Sammy was an educated man—undergraduate engineering at Georgia Tech, medical school at Emory—but practicing his Southernese with pronunciations like “May-ree” kept him grounded, and to tell the truth, he loved reminding people he had made it to the top of the mountain from the small town of Cordele, Georgia.
      &I I guess,” Mary said, checking her notes one last time. “Let’s see . . . think that’s about it. Good night, Dr. L.” She placed the clipboard under her arm and marched out, loosening the hinges of the door as she slammed it closed.
     Sammy fumbled through the papers on his desk, then opened his top drawer and, after searching for a minute, found the engraved invitation to that night’s soiree:

The Georgia Stone Institute
In celebration of its first year
Cordially invites you to a dinner
At the Ritz Carlton, Buckhead
April 9, 1986
Cocktails 6:30 P.M.
Dinner 7:30 P.M.
RSVP by April 6, 1986

      He stretched out in his office chair and smiled. Invitation in hand, he walked to the bank of windows as dusk settled over the city and looked out over the majesty of Atlanta. What was it Henry Grady said a century ago? Something about raising a “brave new city.” Well, here it was, a phoenix hoisted from the ashes of Sherman’s march to the sea. Directly to the south, Sammy could see the most well-known memorial to the great journalist, the massive Grady Hospital, the county facility where taxpayer dollars, when not misappropriated, were used to care for pimps, whores, drug addicts, members of gun and knife clubs, and other downtrodden souls. Sammy stretched and smiled. Just think. If it had been up to Rachel, I’d be at Grady right now serving humankind, making a difference. What a joke.
     He rubbed his fingers along the invitation and laughed out loud. Yeah, what a joke.

     COCKTAILS AND HORS D’OEUVRES WERE PRESENTED in a hall just outside the clubby room where dinner was to be served. Of the one hundred urologists who received invitations, ninety-eight showed up, and when Sammy arrived, they treated him like their grand poobah. The other urologists stood in line to shake his hand, and several of them seemed to have a hard time letting go. Thanks, Sammy. Great job, Sammy. How can we thank you enough, Sammy? On and on went the kissing up until Sammy thought he would wretch from the sickening sweetness.
     Dellwood Dole, the businessman who had masterminded the whole venture, and his partner and attorney, Henry Morton, worked the room, thanking everyone for their support during the year. Finally, the gong signaled time to move into the main room. Dellwood and Henry went to the head table and, as they sat, Dellwood motioned for Sammy and his partner, Mo Gordon, to join them. Dinner was served, and when the desserts appeared, Dellwood rose and tapped his glass. He was small, thin, and (in his own words) elegant. Dellwood’s parents should have named him Dandy, for the shoe certainly fit. He never met a mirror he didn’t like, particularly when his image was in it. Though he was probably about five-seven, his female companions were always Amazons. As he began to speak, he stroked his full head of blond hair and moved his hands about as if directing the words flowing from his mouth.
     “I’m so happy to tell all of you that, in addition to the professional fees you have collected thus far, we do have some profit from Georgia Stone to share with the members of your doctor’s professional group, Lithotripsy Associates. You’ll be getting a check in a day or two.”
     Sammy had a hard time looking at Dellwood, because he was sure he would begin to laugh uncontrollably. Dellwood acted as if he pulled words from his mouth and sprinkled them onto to the public like Tinkerbell’s dust. But, over the top or not, the message was a good one, and loud cheers filled the room.
     A urologist from Savannah got up, raised his glass, and shouted above the din, “To Dellwood Dole and Henry Morton for showing us how to make money in two places at the same time!”
     “Cheers!” the crowd responded in unison.
“An’ to Mo Gordon ‘n’ Sammy Lansky for having the foresight to make this a doctor-owned deal!” shouted an inebriated doctor whose colleagues helped him back into his seat.
     The crowd was in a frenzy now, as frenzied as doctors can get, clapping and cheering and slapping each other on their backs. Mo Gordon, in his hand-tailored Mario Bosco suit, stood on a chair and took a deep bow.
     Dellwood pulled Mo back into his seat and waved his red silk handkerchief to get everyone’s attention. “I think another round of applause is due Sam and Mo for being willing to take care of patients who have been referred by their partners in Lithotripsy Associates. After all, without that sacrifice on their part, this would have been much more difficult. Sam, Mo,” Dellwood said, motioning for them to rise. “Please stand and accept our deepest congratulations.”
     Sammy and Mo stood, but as Mo began to get back on the chair, Dellwood grabbed his arm and glowered at him. Mo got off the chair, bowed, then sat.
     The celebration broke up at about eleven. After the last of the doctors stumbled out of the room, Dellwood put his arms around Mo’s and Sammy’s shoulders and said, “You boys had better wash your feet, because when the docs get their checks in the next day or so, they are going to be kissing them.
     “Speaking of money,” he continued, “let’s find a quiet place where we can do some business.”
     Dellwood, Henry, Mo, and Sammy went to a table that had already been cleared. Dellwood motioned to the hotel staff that they were not to be disturbed.
     “Well, gentlemen,” Dellwood began with a smirk. “We’ve got some checks coming, as well. I took the liberty of bringing them instead of mailing them. I hope,” he said with an impish look, “you don’t mind.” Dellwood handed an envelope to each board member.
     Sammy noticed Mo and Henry put theirs away, so he did the same. There was some small talk and mention of another meeting, but Sammy paid little attention as he continued to finger the envelope he had just put in his inside pocket.
     The four men walked out of the Ritz into a cool spring evening. Sammy kept rubbing the inside pocket of his coat to make sure the envelope hadn’t flown away. Small talk, small talk. When will it stop? Sammy thought. It finally did, and the four men sauntered off to their respective cars. Sammy had been patient enough, so he tore open the envelope and removed a letter from the Georgia Stone Institute.

Dear Dr. Lansky:
      We would like to thank you for your support of the lithotriptor. As a result of that support, we are now able to make a distribution according to your percentage of ownership.
      You own five shares through your participation in Lithotripsy Associates of the Georgia Stone Institute. The check enclosed reflects your share of the profits for the first nine months of operation. Please keep in mind that collections run ninety days behind. Thus, even though we’ve been in operation for a full twelve months, we have collected for only nine.
     Keep up the good work. If there are ever any questions, please do not hesitate to call.
      Sincerely,
      Dellwood Dole
      LithoServices

The check was attached to the letter. The stub above it read:

Distribution of Profits
Gross: $940,000
Per share: $1,880 (500 shares)
Number of shares held: 5

      He unfolded the check and saw it was drawn on the Chattahoochee Bank. The number in the small rectangle was $9,400. Sammy smiled smugly. A nice little lagniappe for his generous six-figure salary, and this was for only nine months! He turned on the ignition, put his car into reverse, moved back a few feet, then got the feeling there was more in the envelope—it wasn’t empty. He moved the car back into the space and, with the engine still running, turned on the dome light and put his hand back in the envelope. There was another note.

Dear Dr. Lansky,
     The amount contained herein represents your percentage of the distribution owed the general partner, LithoServices. Our bank is happy to serve your needs. Please see us at your earliest convenience to discuss dispersal of the assets contained herewith.
     Maxwell Cherry
      First Fulton Savings and Loan

     Sammy unfolded the other check. When he saw the amount, he was stunned. The bottom line was $940,000!
     He looked at the stub, his hands shaking.

Georgia Stone Institute
Sammy Lansky, 25% (18.75 shares) = $940,000

      Ho-ly shit, Sammy thought. In a daze, he backed up his car again. He was rich. Beyond any unbridled dreams, beyond his wildest imagination—he was rich, filthy rich! Nine-hundred-fortythousand dollars! Hell, that was for only nine months. For twelve months, it was . . . what? One third more—over $1.2 million. And he could expect that year after year for at least five years. Now he understood how Mo lived so well: Mo was involved in a bunch of similar deals with Dellwood.
     He looked at his watch: 11:30 P.M. It was too late for a celebratory drink in the hotel bar, so he drove home in a daze. He had made a lot of money practicing urology with Mo, but this good fortune put him into another category. He had set goals for himself—the major one was to be wealthy. Tonight he had attained that goal.
     Sammy arrived at his apartment and stood outside, shaking his head and laughing to himself. Here he was, a rich man still living in a dump. He and Rachel had arrived in Atlanta more than four years ago needing something affordable, so this garage apartment behind an old mansion in the silk stocking neighborhood of Druid Hills fit the bill. The upstairs consisted of a bedroom with a closet big enough for two winter coats and a claustrophobic bathroom with a claw-foot tub surrounded by a flowered plastic curtain. The toilet was so close to the vanity Sammy had to sit sideways so his legs didn’t end up at his chin. The kitchenette had white metal cabinets and linoleum floors and appliances that belonged in a museum.
     He entered, climbed the stairs, and headed toward the bedroom to tell Rachel the news. He found her sleeping soundly and decided to leave her alone. As quietly as he could, he threw ice into a glass, found a bottle of scotch in the liquor cabinet, and poured it. The pungent odor of the liquid filled his nostrils. He walked downstairs into his favorite room, the living room—“the hall of mirrors,” as Rachel had dubbed it. The entire room was mirrored and, at one time, must have been a dance studio. He sat and took a long drink. Everywhere he looked he saw Sammy Lansky, a man who had the world by the short hairs.
      He flashed back to twenty-five years before when he and a boyhood friend, Clete Towns, had been watching the trains pass through downtown Cordele. Clete, leaning against a tree, had waxed poetic on how life was all about timing and being in the right place at the right time. Sammy smiled when he thought now of his countrified philosopher friend.
     “Call it fate, luck, timing, whatever the hell you want,” Clete had said. “Success don’t have nothing to do with intelligence, Sammy. It’s got everything to do with putting your young self in a position to suc-ceed.”
      Sammy laughed to himself and took another long drink of the scotch. Clete had been right: By joining Mo in practice, Sammy had put himself in a position to, as Clete said, “suc-ceed.” He had gone to medical school to make his parents proud of him, and they were. He had joined Mo to make money, and he had.
      When he’d finished his residency at the University of Michigan, Rachel had wanted him to join the staff at Emory and Grady, but he’d known what that would mean—all prestige and no money—kind of like being a Polish count. His wife had been furious about Sammy’s decision to join Mo.
     “You don’t know anything about that hospital where he practices,” she’d warned him.
     “Mo says it’s fine. Busiest place on the south side of Atlanta.”
     “Yeah, well, Meridian Hospital near Ann Arbor was busy, too, and I’m sure those guys made a lot of money, but I wouldn’t want to go there even if it was three days after I died.”
      They’d argued nonstop for months, and in the end, he had won. Within three months, he’d known he had done the right thing, because during that time, Mo had taught him how medicine equaled money. Mo periodically reviewed Sammy’s charts, not for quality issues, but to make sure he got the most out of each procedure for billing. At first, Sammy had been irritated and intimidated by this supervision. But, when he’d seen how he could turn a simple $200 procedure into a $600 procedure just by coding it a certain way, he’d understood Mo’s intentions, and now he was happy to have had the help.
      “Forget all the ivory tower bullshit you learned in residency,” Mo had told him. “Those professors are so busy being big shots that they don’t know anything about the real world.”
      He’d put some billing records in front of Sammy. “Code 52281 is cysto,” Mo had said. “We’ve already gone over that one. It’s two hundred dollars. Code 52276, urethral dilatation, major—one hundred. Code 52224, fulguration of minor lesion—one hundred twenty-five. Code 52204, bladder biopsy—hundred bucks. Patients want to make sure there’s no tumor. You can even do a cystogram, 51600. A simple X-ray of the bladder, a cystogram, adds a hundred bucks. Look at what you got. Same procedure, maybe fifteen minutes longer because of the X-ray, but instead of two hundred dollars, you got six hundred twenty-five dollars. According to the formula I got worked out, based on the number of patients you’re seeing, you should be doing ten to fifteen cystos a week. Ten a week at six hundred is right at three hundred thousand in cystos alone.”
      Mo had said that when he put on his silk sport coat, got in his huge Mercedes sedan equipped with the finest stereo equipment, and drove to his six-thousand-square-foot home, he knew he had escaped his humble Brooklyn beginnings.
     “Look, you and I are from the same background. My dad’s a tailor. I say ‘is’ because at seventy-eight, he’s still slaving away in his little shop in Brooklyn. My mom tells everyone he works because he loves it so much. Shit, he works because he’s got no damn choice. He and Mama got this bad habit of wanting to eat. They sure as hell can’t live on social security.”
      Sammy held the glass in front of his eyes and looked through it. The liquid smiled with him as it massaged his brain. Here in the hall of mirrors sat the king of the Lanskys. Never before in the history of the Lansky family, dating back at least to the time of the Crusades, had anyone risen to such heights. Never before had members of his family had one thing more than they needed.Poverty and pogroms, poverty and pogroms: That was all his ancestors had gotten generation after generation. He had come from nowhere, born in Europe after the war, the only child of Holocaust survivors, a Jewish boy reared in the vacuum of Cordele, Georgia. Yet he was sitting here tonight as a king. Long live the king!